


Whip

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [79]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Object Penetration, filthy filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 07:59:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5997901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a terrible flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whip

He hadn’t meant for this to happen. John still isn’t entirely sure how he got here. Or no, that’s a lie. He knows how he got here and it’s probably entirely Sherlock’s fault because honestly what _right_ has anyone to be that attractive. And it’s not John’s fault that it’s been months since he’s had sex. And it’s certainly not his fault that it’s been even longer than that since he’s _wanted_ to. But bloody hell they have been long months and right now the only thing he can think about is being bent over the nearest horizontal surface and being fucked to within an inch of consciousness.

And so here he is. The epitome of the creeper flatmate, stalking about the place looking for something, _anything_ that will do the job for him.

He doesn’t have sex toys. Has never needed the bloody things, honestly, and he has this vague anxiety about actually walking into an actual store and talking to actual people and having to look them in the eye while they ask him if he’d like to pay cash or if that will be on credit today, sir, and John will pray to every god he’s ever heard invoked that he actually has credit enough to buy something that everyone involved in the transaction is aware will soon be shoved up his arse.

He thinks perhaps he’ll stick with being the creeper flatmate for a little while longer. Then maybe he can go out on the pull, find a willing body, a willing cock. That would be nice. That would be ideal. But right now he doesn’t have the patience because he hasn’t felt this desperate for something since Gary in the year above him had smiled at him from the shower across from him and then run a lecherous eye down his adolescent body. That was before he and his friends had found John after school and beaten the living shit out of him, but...details. Gary had wanted it and John could have died happy knowing that much at least.

So, he’s left to this. Sizing up his new flatmate’s possessions in an attempt to find something to fuck himself with. There’s the dagger in the mantle. Obviously not, but the handle...no, accident waiting to happen. There’s a torch in the cupboard under the sink: too big. A permanent marker in the kitchen drawer: too small.  


John can’t believe he’s doing this. He wonders what will happen if Sherlock were ever to find out that he’d been contemplating this. Would he call the police? Or just kill him? Probably the latter. He’s fairly sure Sherlock Holmes would be an expert at getting rid of bodies.

He’s about to give up because there’s still some sane, rational corner of his brain that’s telling him that this is just sick, when suddenly...he sees it. And it’s _perfect._

“Oh God, no,” he says because he knows he’s going to do it. It’s just too perfect. Too _random._ Who has a _whip?_ It must be a sign. Some kind deity must have placed it here for just this purpose, so that John could take that smooth tapered handle and cover it with lube and bend himself over and push it inside his tragically empty arse as far up as it will go and proceed to fuck his own brains out with it.

 _Jesus bloody Christ,_ he thinks as he reaches for it. _Has it really been that long since I’ve been laid?_

 _Yes,_ his body says. _Yes, it has._

_Fuck._

He feels like a criminal as he quickly plucks it off the chair it’s been haphazardly tossed on. He resists the urge to stuff it down his shirt and flee the premises (or at least the sitting room) because he’s alone and that would be stupid.

Yes, stupid. This is stupid, John. _John! This is stupid!_

He ignores himself and stuffs it under his jumper and runs upstairs with it.

And now he’s alone with it, sitting naked on his bed with a bottle of lube and the whip with its glorious leather handle. He touches it and imagines it pushing deep inside him and the only thing that could make this moment more perfect would be if someone else were here to do it for him. He knows Mrs Hudson is home but he is positive that he will never be that desperate.

 _Well. Best get on,_ he thinks, and with a hand that’s not entirely steady he slicks the slim leather handle with the lube and rather clumsily, because he’s out of practice, he turns himself onto his side and reaches around himself until he can feel it, cold and wet and pressing at his crack. He spreads his legs and starts pushing it forward, his fingers slippery on the smooth leather, trying to find that spot where it will cave in and when he finds it _oh Jesus_ it is _good._ He has to stop for a moment because he’s forgotten how incredible that feeling is, that aching stretch, that bone-deep awareness of being _owned_ and _invaded_ and _taken._ He shuts his eyes and his mouth hangs open of its own accord as he tries to resist simply shoving it forward all the way.  


But it’s been too long since he’s done this and he needs to go slow, so he forces himself to relax, shaking on the bed with his legs spread and the tip of the handle pressed just inside of him. And when he thinks he can do this without breaking anything, he begins to thrust. Pushing it inwards a centimetre at a time, fucking it slowly inside of him until...until _...oh god_ until it is inside him and he is struggling to breathe because his hole stretched around the cool leather is suddenly the burning centre of his entire body and he’s forgotten how all-consuming this sensation could be. His cock is hard and dripping into his new sheets and he doesn’t even care because the only thing that matters is the thing pushing into his arse and owning him and how very fitting it is that it should be a whip.

And that, of course, is when he realises he’s not alone.

“I was wondering where that had gotten to,” Sherlock Holmes says, and John nearly hurts himself tearing the thing out again but a large warm hand is suddenly clamped around his wrist holding him still and there are narrow blue eyes leaning over him, staring at him as John stares open-mouthed back at them, trying desperately to formulate some sort of response as to why his new flatmate should find him in this position with one of his possessions covered in lube and shoved up his arse.

“Ah,” he manages.

“Fascinating,” Sherlock Holmes says. “I suppose this will go faster if I give you a hand.”

“Gnh,” John says.

“Good. On your knees, face in the pillow. Best if we try to keep the noise down at least until Mrs Hudson has gotten used to the idea.”

“Idea?” John slurs and is proud of how clear the word had come out.

“The idea of me fucking you. Obviously. Pay attention, John.”

“Ah,” John says again and now he’s repeating himself, but it doesn’t matter because a large hand is pulling his own from the whip and pushing him over onto his belly and the whip is heavy now with nothing to support it but the clenching muscles of his arse, but Sherlock’s hands are occupied, pulling his hips up and shoving his face down and John manages a slight whimper before the weight is finally relieved because Sherlock’s hand is back on the whip again and he’s pulling it out and John has just enough presence of mind left to try and follow it.

“Good range of motion with your hips,” Sherlock says approvingly and then without warning shoves it back in and only the pillow pressed into his face saves John the embarrassment of having his new landlady join him after all.

“I thought you’d be a screamer,” Sherlock says behind him and there is so much smug satisfaction in his voice that John wants to snap something clever and scathing back at him, but then Sherlock starts to fuck him in earnest and all ability to speak beyond _“God YES!”_ abandons him.

And oh god it has been too long because this is _everything._ The world shrinks and centres on Sherlock Holmes and the things he is doing to John Watson, on that point of his existence that is described by the hand on his hip holding him steady, by the filling and emptying of his body and John has never felt so utterly possessed in his entire life and it’s the most glorious _relief,_ this succumbing perfection to a competent hand. He needs to do this more, always, every day, every hour, because this is going to be over too soon, it’s been too long and he’s too desperate and he doesn’t even need to be touched, hasn’t even thought once about his cock because all he can think about is the burning stretch as he’s taken over and _filled_. And when Sherlock, his large hand a single spot of warmth on his hip, gives him a light tap that is barely the suggestion of a spank, John is suddenly screaming, his orgasm tearing up from somewhere he thought he’d lost entirely and in too short a time he is panting and gasping into his pillow, the presence of the whip handle in his body suddenly nothing more than a foreign object that wasn’t really meant to be there.

“Excellent,” Sherlock says behind him and John can barely register the word never mind interpret it as English. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I imagine you’ll last quite a bit longer next time around.”

 _Next time._ That registers, and John forces his head up and around. Sherlock is still behind him, still between his spread legs on the bed. He watches as Sherlock tugs the whip from his body, wincing because even now his body is trying to hold onto it, his arse clenching down around the leather, and Sherlock feels that minute resistance because he gives a low chuckles and gives John’s cheek another smack.

“Greedy,” Sherlock says, and tosses the whip to one side while with his other hand he reaches for the zip of his fly. “Now, face in the pillow, John. This one will be quite a bit larger.”


End file.
